2024 Mash Up
2024 left me gobsmacked. So many things I’ve always wanted to do, a bucket list of joy and so devastatingly interrupted by the passing of my Uncle Phil. I needed sport more than ever to keep me going.
Sitting around doing nothing is not a good way to recover from loss.
Not for me, anyway.
I trained in #lanzarote and #mallorca , climbed #sacalobra (again) completed my first #ironman 70.3 in Venice (when sick!) raced #annecy #triathlon olympic distance, went paragliding over #lakeannecy climbed #alpedhuez for real, learned to fly a drone @djiglobal sea kayaked the length of #menorca camping on sandy beaches with just the best people @muchbetteradventures raced Weymouth 10k, circumnavigated #portland by kayak with @channeleventsuk and saw a dolphin, learned to roll my kayak (work in progress) Dived with #lundy seals and bought some shares in racehorses!! I don’t think I’ve been caving or cave diving once, but there is more to life and I’ll get back to it when the mood takes me.
People keep trying to get me to slow down. Why would you do that? I like my life how it is. Why would I want to slow down? Life is too short, so make the best of it now. It’s not a dress rehearsal....
The Alpe
Orro bike part way up Alpe D’Huez, France.
The Alpe
I sat at the dinner table, staring at my small plate of white fish, a little rice and some lettuce. I was too tired to start eating it, pushing around my plate instead.
“That’s a proper fucking climb!” My mate and colleague said, slightly outraged and surprised at what I’d just done.
“I know…” I said, picking at the fish.
“How long did it take you?” he asked.
“Fucking ages!” I replied.
As luck would have it, I was down in Annecy competing in an Olympic distance triathlon and had some time to kill afterwards. Alpe D’huez was only a few hours drive away.
I booked a campsite at Bourg D’Oisans which was conveniently right at the start of the famous climb.
Lake Annecy from the air. Shot on Insta 360 camera.
But, not before I took to the air and went paragliding in Annecy – something I had always wanted to do ever since I started visiting France as an adult in my early twenties.
Wherever you go in the French mountains, you see colourful canopies, dots in the sky, circling the thermals and gently, like leaves falling from a tree, spiralling slowly down to earth to land in some field somewhere.
In my youth I simply couldn’t afford it. Other times, I just ran out of time or couldn’t motivate the people I was with to come with me.
Free of all ties, I booked myself onto a tandem flight. Just 20 minutes, in case I didn’t like it!
View from the best seat in the house. Lake Annecy. Flights by Takamaka.
I rocked up at the flight school and a few of us piled into a minibus, packed out with parachutes and harnesses and our pilots.
We drove up the Col de Forclaz, which is one of the highest points above Lake Annecy. It looked like a half decent cycling climb until the hair pins ramped up to a ridiculous gradient and I thought better if it. We climbed higher and higher.
As we walked to the take-off ramp, the views were spectacular, and the height made you feel a bit dizzy.
My pilot was Mitch and he spoke better English than I did French. He was good looking, smoot and impressed that I worked offshore. We chatted easily and he fitted me out on my harness and helmet. We didn’t faff at all. There was no time to even think, really. I felt a tug of the parachute behind me and we took a few awkward steps back.
Then very quickly, those words again: “Allez allez, go, go, go….”
We ran a few strides then whooomph! We were up in the air very quickly. I wasn’t really ‘in’ my seat, so he quickly showed me how to lift myself into the seat properly and get comfy. He’d kindly allowed me to bring my Insta 360 camera and I started filming the incredible views as we flew up and down the tree line chatting and laughing.
Eventually we crossed the lake and after he’d let me have a go at steering, he was keen to show off his aerobatic skills.
I’m up for pretty much anything and away we went. After three big swoops where my stomach almost fell out, I had to stop. I was the kid who clung to the top of a death slide, hating that ‘dropping’ feeling. I hate roller coasters and theme parks and it’s the reason I won’t do a bungee jump or jump from a plane.
It might have been easier if I’d known what to expect or was controlling the chute myself, but either way, I decided to park the aerobatics for another day.
We had a gentle landing. “Just stand up” he said. I did, and that was it.
Encroyable!
I had also recently bought a mini drone and had lots of fun learning to fly it. I was looking forward to getting some classic shots of the Alpes.
It was a wonderful way to round off my week in Annecy and to be honest, I didn’t really want to pack up and leave, but I had plans and set off to Bourg D’Oisans.
The mountains got bigger and I could see snow on top of some of them. Then I saw some road signs ‘Alpe D’Huez’. I couldn’t believe I was really here.
Chateau Duingt, Lake Annecy. Shot with DJI Mini 4k Drone.
The campsite wasn’t as posh as the one in Annecy, but it had everything you needed and a pool, which I wasted no time jumping into. As I relaxed on the sunlounger, I could see, rising above me, the first few bends of the Alpe D’Huez before the road disappeared out of sight into the mountains. The first few bends are the steepest, averaging about 10% and it looked intimidating from my seat by the pool.
I knew I could climb it, but I also knew that real climbs are also much, much harder in real life than on the Watt bike indoor trainer.
Still recovering from the Annecy Triathlon, I decided to give myself another rest day and go for the climb on the Friday.
View from my van
Instead, I took a gentle womble around a flat route by the river to find places to fly my drone and, as ever, it turned into a complete epic!
It started out fine, passing stunning glacial lakes with unreal turquoise colours and little picnic areas. It was beautiful but I didn’t feel confident flying my drone around people, so I moved on a bit.
A little further along I found an empty parking place which was quiet. I launched the drone and captured some amazing shots of glacial lakes, rivers and mountains.
I rode on along the river and the track became covered in several places with deep sand. I wobbled to a halt and ended up ‘hike a bike’ on and off for quite a few kilometers.
Bourg D’Oisans valley. Shot by DJI Mini 4k Drone
Bourg D’Oisans valley. Shot by DJI Mini 4k Drone
Then, to my horror, I really was stopped in my tracks as the road just ended! It had been swept away by the river which crashed past in front of me.
Nope!
This meant going a little off piste and following a track mostly covered in deep sand and then a grassy path with rocks in it.
Orro Venturi does not like grass, nor lumpy tracks and I completely agree.
I ended up carrying Orro most of the way back to tarmac, boulder hopping yet another dry riverbed, sans road that had collapsed.
Back on terra firma and bumped into some Americans who had been up Alpe D’Huez that morning and were looking for an easy route to do in the afternoon.
I diverted them away from my hike-a-bike trail and they were super grateful.
I chose a Friday to go up the Alpe. Weather looked sunny but not baking hot, so blue skies were promised and I guessed there would be far fewer cyclists midweek.
After breakfast and lots of nervous faffing, I set off on the very short lead-in to the start of the climb, which was pretty much round the corner from the campsite. Not much of a warmup then.
As I started plodding up the first few bends, the steepest of the route, it became apparent that a Friday was a bad idea.
Lorry after lorry came trundling past, belching out black stinking smoke and it was relentless. There seemed to be some sort of quarry works going on up in Huez and heavy plant and vehicles passed at regular intervals.
They were respectful and clearly used to cyclists and I never felt in any danger. It just spoiled the experience somewhat.
A few other cyclists plodded by in their own time not going crazily faster than me. One set off just behind me but never passed until I stopped briefly for a breather on bend 19.
I kept plodding and the heat of the day set in. Fuelled by jelly babies, Nutella biscuits and water with dioralyte, I enjoyed the views as the hairpin bends offered views of the snow-capped Alpes. It was quite humbling to see that some of the lower bends were adorned with very high mesh fencing. These were clearly designed to catch cyclists who descend too quickly and risk plummeting off the edge of the mountain, literally.
Each of the 21 famous bends on the climb has a plaque naming previous winners of the Tour De France stage involving the Alpe.
The Alpe D’Huez climb ends at 1860 metres altitude, climbing from Bourg D’Oisans cyclists ascend 1143 metres elevation, over 14.5km distance.
The average gradient is 7.9% and the maximum, 14%.
The first landmark was the pretty church, Saint-Ferréol, on a sweeping left-hand bend 7 with a stunning mountain backdrop. There are also some facilities opposite, with fresh water to refill bidons, toilettes and recycling bins.
Climbing ever higher, you pass through a small village which gives some respite as the gradient backs off for a short while. It then picks up again as you head into the upper bends, with a little more shade and luckily, during lunchtime the road was quieter as the lorry drivers took their siesta.
Saint-Ferréol church, bend 7. Image: DJI Mini 4K drone (Christine Grosart)
I passed beneath the ski lift station, as if I needed any reminding how high I was. Just 3km to go then….
This is where the cowbells start and the marmots begin chirping. I’m not fast enough to outride the flies that seem to go for slow moving cyclists, as a refreshing change to the cattle that graze the higher slopes.
There were a few stings in the tail on the last part of the climb and I finally finished conveniantly close to a bar that was something of an anticlimax after such a classic ride.
I had a pint of lager and messaged my friend who had got me into cycling 3 years ago. I spotted some guys standing on what looked to be a podium that had been set up for anyone to have their photos taken.
Some nice ladies from New Zealand obliged and we had a laugh as I enjoyed the moment. What I was really looking forward to was the descent. Mostly facing the right way on the way down to enjoy the mountain views and with a dry road, I went as fast as I dared without needing the cyclist-catcher nets.
On top of the world
I chilled out the next day in the pool and the bar, with a quick drive up to the Alpe to shoot some video with my drone and do some jersey shopping. I rounded the day with a fabulous steak frites and rosé wine in Bourg D’Oisans, watching the world go by.
I didn’t really have any plans after that, but didn’t want to waste a day. Despite an upset tummy, I decided to cycle in the evening up Col D’Ornan. Not steep but quite long, I ignored the thunderstorm warnings and set off. Thunderstorms were usually short lived. Except this one.
A few hundred metres from the Col I couldn’t take any more. It had been steadily raining and now it was a steady, torrential downpour. Thunder clapped, water cascaded down the road and I still had quite a long descent home. It had set in for the evening. I decided that as I was alone and out on a limb, with hypothermia a reality, I’d head home. I was trashed and didn’t feel an sense of achievement at all. Lesson learned. But probably not…
Allez Allez
If I ever hear those words again, I think I’ll scream!
Orro on Lovers Bridge, Annecy.
June in France is meant to be warm, glorious weather with balmy evenings in the bar.
Sure, up in the mountains you can get the odd rumble of thunder and dramatic flash of lightening with some refreshing downpours, but it’s normally all ok by the morning.
The early heat of the sun lifts the dampness into low hanging clouds until they disperse and reveal another blue sky and sun-drenched day in this beautiful country.
But oh no, not today. Not on the day of the Olympic distance triathlon I had been training for since last August!
My first visit to Lake Annecy was after a caving expedition to the Dent De Crolles cave system in the Chartreuse. I fell in love with the warm, turquoise, clear lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains and the chilled, cosmopolitan vibe.
I returned again in 2022 to start dipping my toe into the world of triathlon and it was the most stunning place to train. With an (almost) pan flat cycling and running circuit of the lake, mountains surrounding the lake to get the climbing legs going and the fresh, clear water to get used to open water swimming – it was perfect.
I cycled up my first Col, the Col de Leschaux and was hooked.
I wondered if there was a triathlon in the area and sure enough, an Olympic distance triathlon was held each June.
This comprised a 1500m swim, finishing just beyond the classic ‘Lovers Bridge’, followed by a 40km bike which included Col de Leschaux (11.8km long/ 3.7% average / 8% max) and then a pan flat 10km run.
I set off in my van which is really a car, to Dover and it felt unusually empty with just athletics gear, a driveaway tent and my bike. I planned to stop in the champagne region of Epernay where the Municipale campsite is friendly and a safe place to stop over for a night. I arrived in good time, enough time to go for a run along the river and canal that threads its way through the Marne.
I don’t know how, but I got completely lost and ended up doing a very hot and scenic 7km. Turns out you cannot cross locks on canals like you can in the UK as they were well barriered off with large gabions.
After my ordeal, I spent the evening in the golden hour drinking a pint by the river.
The next day I loaded the van with food, wine, and pretty much all the amazing things you find in French supermarkets and drove a further 5 or so hours to Annecy. I settled in, did a quick spin on the bike and a swim in the lake and I was ready for the triathlon.
I drove into Annecy to register the day before and despite a parking nightmare, this proved a good move as the heavens opened while I was there and getting soaked and risking the bike wouldn’t have been a clever move.
The children’s race was on the Saturday, and I felt sorry for the little mites as they swam, cycled and ran their hearts out only to be met with horrible weather. They finished their races, shivering and teeth chattering, not really knowing what they had just accomplished – some were very small! Their parents yelled encouragement from the sidelines like their lives depended on it.
I smiled and felt happy for them. My mother wouldn’t even turn up for school sports day, never mind take me to anything like this.
As it turned out, the bike distance in the grown-ups’ race was more like 47km and to complicate matters, the two transition areas for bike and run were in 2 different locations! It was logistically a bit fiddly.
Mountains obscured by clouds and rain. Could have been any field in England…
I had originally booked a large apartment overlooking the lake, very close to town, thinking that camping would be too hard if I was too broken following the race. But given that it was half the distance of the Ironman 70.3, and I was infinitely fitter, plus parking threatened to be a nightmare and expensive, I opted for a very nice campsite instead down in Sevrier, close to where I had stayed before. It was right on the cycle way and short waddle to the lake for swimming.
More importantly, the campsite barrier would open for me in the morning. You have to be careful with French campsites, as often they forbid vehicle movement before 7am and locked electric gates to enforce this.
That’s a big problem if you need to be up and away before 6am for race day.
Thankfully camping L’Aloua were accommodating, and the facilities were superb.
The morning of race day was grey and drizzly. This progressed to a proper downpour. As I pumped up my bike tyres the visibility reduced so much that the mountains surrounding the lake were completely obscured by low cloud and torrential rain.
The French didn’t give a monkeys.
It wasn’t particularly cold, but rain capes and brollies came out and competitors squelched barefooted through the mud into transition.
I started to set up transition in a state of disappointment. All that time, all that training and it had come to this. My forté is descending but now I’d had to go super slowly on the wet, greasy roads to avoid crashing.
The lake had never looked so uninviting.
I racked my bike, wrapped my cycling gear in a towel hoping it would stay mostly dry and put my running gear into a bag which would be taken by the race volunteers to Transition 2 about a kilometre away for the run later.
I sat on the back bumper of my van, trying to shelter under the boot lid as I put on my wetsuit. People dressed in plastic bags wandered past and nothing was dry anymore.
We all walked slowly to the water’s edge after what seemed an eternity, waiting for the briefing. The rain had started to subside, crowds began gathering on the promenade and muddied lawns that grace the beachfront of Annecy. We gingerly stepped into the water to flush our suits, get our faces wet and fiddle with our swimming goggles. A few of us dove into the shallow, crystal-clear water and all of a sudden, the weather didn’t matter. The mountains began to appear again, and steam rose off every bit of tarmac that was wet. There was no sun, but the downpour was giving us a reprieve.
The starter arrived on a large pedalo with his loud haler. This was a mass start, but they did separate the men from the women.
“Les hommes, à droite…. Les femmes, à gauche!!!”
This didn’t help at all, as all it meant was, thousands of athletes of various speeds and abilities were destined to converge at the first, right-handed buoy before setting off across the lake into the funnel under ‘Lovers Bridge’.
This was my first mass start for the swim. I figured if I started near the front, I would be among the faster and therefore better, swimmers.
Oh, how wrong can you be!!
“Trois, deux, un…….Alleeeeeezzzzz”
Everyone threw themselves into the water and a mud churning, washing machine which resembled charge of the light brigade, ensued.
It was little more than aquatic self-defence!
First off, starting to swim was a mistake. We were being kicked in the face by people running through the silt, as the water was still really only waist deep.
I felt that I was wasting energy fighting a losing battle trying to swim beautifully amongst this chaos of all the running, staggering, falling and flapping. I stood up, defogged my goggles and got jogging until the water got deeper and people started to actually swim.
The damage was done.
I’m a reasonable swimmer, with no fear of water but my heart rate had spiked in the maelstrom, and I struggled to get it back under control.
I had also committed the cardinal sin of triathlon – I had done something new on race day. I’d switched sports bras and gone for my training bra which I use for running, to keep my assets under control!
However, I’d never swum in this sports bra, and it immediately felt tight, and I felt short of breath and tight chested. I’d never felt like that in the water before and I had to work hard to ignore everyone around me – quite difficult when you are being kicked and punched from all sides – and slow down.
I moved to the outside of the pack to get some clearer water, but it didn’t work. Some bloke, who had clearly never considered sighting, was zig zagging wildly across the pack of swimmers. He crossed diagonally in front of me no less than 3 times, both ways, and even worse, he was still going about the same speed so there was no escaping him.
I couldn’t go any faster and to slow down and lose him would spoil my own race.
The next time he crossed me he stopped me dead, and I had to bob upright to avoid another mowing down. I instinctively gave him a good hard kick to push him back in a straight line. He was completely oblivious and continued zig zagging and flapping his way wildly to the entrance of the canal, where I finally lost him.
As we entered the canal the water became shallower. I swam as much as I could, worried about cutting myself on any glass or other nasties that might be at the bottom in the thick, gloopy mud. The water turned an opaque grey, and I tried hard not to swallow any of it. We were soon at the carpeted steps and whisked onto the muddy grass by the volunteers to go and find our bikes. I pulled my wetsuit off, tucked my hat, ear plugs and goggles into a sleeve and tried to dry my feet. For distances longer than sprint I prefer to wear socks for the bike and the run. Getting wet socks on in a hurry is always stressful so I decided not to hurry. Once on, I put my cycling shoes on, then gloves, then helmet, then number belt and finally my shades – not that I needed them today!
I trotted in the slippery mud with my bike to the mount line. We set off on a fairly flat run through Annecy, lined with cheering crowds as well as holiday makers who were oblivious to a race happening, and stepped out in front of cyclists at fairly regular intervals.
Orro on Lovers Bridge, Annecy on a gentle lap of the lake after the triathlon.
It wasn’t a closed road event and whilst I got some speed up on my tri bars setting off towards Sevrier, the start of the climbing, several white vans belching black smoke decided they were going to hopscotch the riders and then brake. I decided to keep my momentum and passed both them, and the other riders in the middle of the road where I had both visibility and a clear path. It worked out to be the safest thing to do.
Leaving the carnage behind, I picked off a few more riders and felt good.
I had to make hay while the sun shone (or not) because I knew these riders would all, one by one, pass me again as we started the ascent of Col De Leschaux. And sure enough, they did.
I was heavier than most of them and putting out significantly more power than they had to in order to achieve the same thing.
There is a reason why the pro peloton looks almost emaciated. It doesn’t matter how fit or strong you are – if you are heavy, you will suck on climbs.
Despite a personal record time climbing the Col, I was left with only a few stragglers behind me. All I could do now was descend like a demon and whilst I probably wouldn’t make up the time I’d lost, I definitely couldn’t afford to dawdle. There were cut off times at various parts of the race although I’m not sure how much they were enforced. I seemed to be clear of them.
The rain had stopped, and the roads were not awash as badly as I had expected. I didn’t hang about. I took it steady on the bends but otherwise, went full gas downhill on the aero bars and punched through the irritating further climbs that spattered the remainder of the route.
We rolled back into a strange industrial estate and found a different transition area set up in a school yard. I racked my bike and swapped my cycling shoes for running shoes. I left my helmet and replaced it with my running visor and shades. As I set off at an extremely uncomfortable trot for the 10km run, I was horrified to find that the first kilometre was straight up a sharp hill, alongside traffic belching out fumes and spraying us with puddles. It was horrid and not the idyllic and flat run I’d expected along the shores of Lake Annecy. This was shortly followed by an extremely steep, cobbled descent and some very fiddly turns through the pavements of Annecy, including an underpass stinking of urine.
I didn’t feel like I was going well, despite all my training and I walked a little to try and sort my legs out and get my heart rate down. I had worked very hard on the bike and used a lot of energy which I needed for the run. I had been trying to buy myself time for the run and now I needed every minute of it. It turned out that the bike was several kilometres longer than advertised and much longer than an ‘Olympic Distance triathlon should be.
The run finally found it’s route out along the promenade, and I suddenly realised it was going to be 3 laps. This didn’t match the course that was in the athlete’s guide, which was out and back.
I hate multi-lap runs. Psychologically it is wretched, as you pass the finish line twice, or three times in this case, but cannot go down that finishing chute until the end. You also pass the same spectators who witness your struggle several times over.
At 4km I bonked. And not in a good way!
Like a car running out of petrol, I had run out of fuel, and it was instant. With all the breathless climbing and super-fast descending, I hadn’t taken on anywhere near as many calories as I needed. My little aerodynamic food pouch on the bike still had plenty of items in it that I should have eaten. I had nothing with me on the run.
I stopped at the aid station and grabbed a banana and a piece of cake. I don’t like either, but I was in trouble. I drank some water and set off again, the fire stoked, and was able to keep jogging.
By the time I got to 7km the same thing happened again and I stopped at the same aid station, again. This was definitely not how to do it.
I limped home the final 3km and felt nothing but exhaustion and disappointment at the end.
The atmosphere had been fantastic, with my French being good enough to understand what people were shouting and I was able to converse back. I enjoyed the idea of the event but didn’t particularly enjoy the event itself.
I’m still learning about long course triathlon, nutrition and of course, having to train on a ship 6 months of the year, unable to swim, has its challenges too.
But it’s easy to look at the negatives, especially if you are a fierce self critic like me. There were so many positives about this event, as it was the one I had wanted for so long.
In 2020 I learned to ride a bike and only 2 years ago couldn’t use clip in peddles. I hadn’t swum in open water in a wetsuit and couldn’t bilateral breathe until 18 months ago. My running always halted at 5km with back spasms and calf injuries, all of which had now subsided, thanks to learning new running techniques from my friends. I hadn’t used tri bars on a bike until January this year. I had achieved a lot and built the base for a lot of success in the future. I was strong for sure, but as ever, let down by my weight on the bike and run which I had struggled with ever since I was a child, wanting to be a jockey.
With everything I needed to be competitive in place, I just needed to shift those dead kilograms – easier said than done, but it will happen. Never again do I want to see people flying past me up the Col de Leschaux.
It goes without saying that I would never had got there without the daily support and hard work of my coach, fellow cave diver and 10 x Ironman, Russell Carter. I have an awful lot to thank him for. And importantly, our 100% finish record remains intact.
The French Connection
Christine on her way out of Cregols. Image: Jo Croimins
The Lot region of France, adjoining the possibly better known department Dordogne, is a mecca for cave divers.
I first visited in 2006 as a trainee cave diver and in my sidemounted 12 litre cylinders, had a blast visiting all the ‘classic’ sites such as the Emergence de Ressel, St Georges, Cabouy, Fontaine de Truffe, Source Landenouse as well as the lesser visited sites such as Emergence de Cregols.
The following year I supported Rick Stanton and John Volanthen in dragging all their gear to sump 5 in the Truffe while they pushed the end at sump 12. Subsequent trips were in a similar vein, a mixture of tourist diving, training and exploration. And of course, enjoying the wine, food and scenery the region had to offer, in addition to excellent canoeing on the rivers Celé, Lot and Dordogne.
Going on holiday to the Lot with the Cave Diving Group always leads to adventures and we always took our ropes ladders and dry caving gear to have a ‘day off’ from diving to visit the other caving systems in the region.
Despite visiting the region regularly on and off for almost 20 years, it had never once occurred to me to ride a bike there.
Now, with my newfound passion of cycling and triathlon, I was very excited about visiting such a stunning region and being able to combine my two sports on the same trip.
I was super keen to kick off with a loop of the two rivers that run through the region, the Lot and the Dordogne. Peppered with classic cave diving sites I loosely named the route ‘cave divers loop’ and the 100km mostly flat ride, took in some stunning scenery.
The first thing I noticed was that, by being on a bike, I was obviously going much slower than a car and could notice the classic French buildings nestled in the rock faces, the wildlife and the beautiful summer river ambience that you just don’t notice when you are driving to the dive site, your mind on the job ahead.
I started in Marcilhac-sur-Celé which boasts probably the most famous cave diving site in Southern France, Emergence de Ressel. That would come at the end though, as I set of in the opposite direction to do the route anti-clockwise. I passed through beautiful gorges, passed old water mills and stunning villages. I stopped halfway in Cajarc, hoping that being a Sunday lunchtime something would be open for some proper food. There were a couple of restaurants that claimed to be fully booked and I finally managed to get some nice pastries and a cold cola from the patisserie. I was never really sure if the restaurants were booked or if they just didn’t like English cyclists. I had noted a rather less than friendly tone in France since the Brexit debacle. I’m still not sure what that whole thing was meant to achieve. All it has done is made it harder to take French wine back home.
Not far from Cregols I was somewhat surprised to see the Canyon-Sram ladies pro team bus parked up. I got a bit bedevilled on directions at the roundabout and was very relieved to set off without having any clip-in fails in front of the pro peloton!
La Piscalerie. A nice (but out of bounds) dive worth doing just once.
I set off again in the glorious sunshine and it was getting rather hot as I tackled the only climb in the route. I started to flag a bit over the last 10km and was glad to see the familiar roadside cliffs which indicated the Ressel on my left. It was the first time I had seen the new car park which had been built to accommodate the ever-growing cave diving community.
Back in 2006 you would be lucky to see another car perched on the side of the road near the cave. And if you did, there was a good chance you knew the diver or had heard of them. You would undoubtably end up in a bar with them later.
Now, the car park had been built to get cave divers off the road as the line-up of multiple cars and vans was getting more and more dangerous and unfair to locals. I stopped to take a look. It was absolutely rammed.
I arrived back in Marcilhac-sur-Celé disappointed that the ice cream shop was closed, being a Sunday afternoon.
Feeling the effects of a 100km ride in the heat, I went for a lay down by the river and ate a banana. It was tranquil, apart from the toad chorus that echoed around the Celé and the sound of water rushing down the wier.
La belle France.
I took a day off and fettled my diving gear, thinking about where I’d like to go.
Diving solo isn’t very sociable but I’ve never really had an issue with it. I had got used to diving with others as it was kind of drummed into me over the last 12 years. But I was always capable of diving alone, having been brought up in UK caves where diving as a team wasn’t always possible. I found it much safer than diving with a poorly trained buddy. Poorly trained being the key words. A well trained buddy is a huge asset.
I needed some gas so drove to Gramat to get some fills from Olivair. Olivier set up the gas station just along the road from where we always used to get gas from Frenchman, Andre Grimal. I missed the spontaneous parties and BBQs we would get tangled up in waiting for gas, and the excitement of meeting and befriending other occasional cave divers you might come across at the same time. Andre would test out his homebrew Eau-de-vie on us and it was quite deadly.
I arrived but the gates were locked. He was unlikely to be gone long, so I waited. Then another car pulled up. A Belgian cave diver called Jo was also waiting for gas and we got chatting. He was here with his girlfriend but she didn’t dive, so he was also facing diving alone. It didn’t take long before we were planning dives together and I was grateful of the company.
Over the next week we had some very cool adventures, though mainly in places I had been before. I added some interest by trying to take photos and showing Jo around places he had never been, such as the Cregols. I was amazed to see other divers in there. In years gone by it was the place where you were guaranteed to be alone.
We did some touristing and photo dives in Ressel and Truffe and a disastrous fail at trying to find Combe Negre. But I was itching to get back onto my bike and try my hand at an ascent of Rocamadour. It was steep at the bottom but such an iconic climb which still had the Tour de France scrawlings all over it and inside the tunnel. I was utterly delighted to manage a clean ascent with no stopping, in the warm evening sunshine.
It had always been my plan to visit friends who lived in the south of France and I chose the middle weekend to make a foray, some four hours south, to the Herault region. My first stop of course was to Jean Tarrit in Larzac. Jean has been a friend for many years and he offered me his annexe in his chic and rustic stone house up on top of the Larzac plateau. Of course, I was invited to visit one of his local caves with his friend Philippe who I had done some surveying with several years ago. It was another surveying trip and it was nice to back on rope again. At least, it was until we met the 3rd pitch which was slathered in thick, gloopy mud which took several episodes of pressure washing to remove.
All I could hear from the 3rd pitch was lots of squelching and protests in English that it was ‘absolutely ‘orrible!!”
I decided of course, once caving was done, to go for a bike ride. I had the whole of the Herault gorge at my disposal, including the hairpin climb with stunning views that always offered the gateway to the region. The day began in glorious sunshine as I parked up at St Maurice de Navacelles. I told Jean not to worry about me and I would be fine. So he didn’t. As I climbed the really quite steep ascent above the Herault gorge the clouds started to gather and as I entered the commune de Rogues, I could hear big rolls of thunder in the hills. I got a move on but before long, I was faced with a steep, never ending descent on wet roads covered in slippery leaves and branches.
Do. Not. Crash.
The wind picked up and the heavens opened, accompanied by the intimidating claps of thunder and terrifying lightening, with a deafening crash only a nano second later which went right through me. Despite being quite warm, hypothermia was still a possibility if I stopped, now that I was totally drenched. My gilet was as much use as a chocolate fire guard. I sheltered under a tree which only threatened to fall on me, so I made haste to the next village, hiding under a shop canopy. The place was deserted. Sheets of rain and lightening carried on relentlessly and water poured in rivers down my face, my front, my back and I the visibility was reduced to a number of metres.
I made it to Gournies. I knew there was a cafe there as the rain started to ease off and steam rose from the roads and the river Herault.
I pulled up and asked if they were serving food. Perhaps a sandwich?
Non.
Coffee?
The grumpy guy nodded and in some kind of sympathy, offered me a paper napkin to dry my face. He then delivered the smallest expresso coffee I have ever seen in my life. Cheers dude.
I made it back up the climb to Saint Maurice, which was a lot easier than I imagined and drove back to jean’s place, insisting on taking him out for pizza which turned into yet another epic.
I had to get fuel for my van first, but by the time we found a parking spot and the pizza place, Jean pointed out that we might have to fill up my car again!
I almost crashed the thing laughing!
Next stop was Nimes, a couple of hours further south, to catch up with my old boss Craig Frederick. I hadn’t been to Nimes for about 20 years since my first caving trip to the Herault. It is a fabulous city and I’d really love to dive the Fontaine de Nimes resurgence one day, which currently is only accessible by the French Pompiers for training.
My final ride was a big circuit, taking in Rocamadour and out to Souillac. I was quite out on a limb but it was a cracking day and I think I found the best cycling cafe on the planet! On my way home, thanks to Komoot, I found a cracking flat ride, mostly traffic free, along the river Loire.
The beauty of travelling alone is being able to what you want, when you want and not being beholden to someone else’s plans or commitments. I ate nice food, had great bike rides, did some cave diving, made new friends and reconnected with old ones.
Life is good and I wouldn’t swap it for anything right now.
Mallorca Part 2 - The Pig.
With Sa Calobra under my belt, it was time to enjoy the other ‘classic’ cycling routes the island had to offer. On my bucket list was Cap Formentor. This lighthouse was a picturesque beacon at the end of a stunning ride with climbing, pine forest, fast descents, scenic cliff tops and a tunnel!
Because of all of this, it was extremely popular, and I was soon tangled up in a long stream of cyclists of all nationalities, winding our way up the first hair pinned climb above Porto Pollensa.
It was a proper day out, covering 61 kilometres and 933 metres of climbing and I spent just over 4 hours on the move.
The lighthouse route had been closed for some time, and newly opened it not only attracted cyclists but tourist vehicles. These were a concern, as hundreds and hundreds of rental cars shoved their way towards the lighthouse, weaving in and out of cyclists and as the lighthouse got ever nearer, the traffic jam grew.
I rode past the stationary cars which couldn’t get into the lighthouse car park which was rammed and decided that I didn’t want to be here. It was too busy, too many people, too many bad manners. The café looked like it was going to be a miserable affair, so I ate my flapjack, didn’t particularly enjoy the view, and left. It was even busier on the return ride, and I was grateful to get back down to Pollensa and pull in to the famous Tollos bar for a well-earned beer and lunch.
After a rest and a bit of swimming, my last ride was out to the ancient town of Petra on a very flat and fast cycle route. A 65km round trip, interrupted by lunch in the town centre in a café full of cyclists, and that was my cycling trip to Mallorca over.
I absolutely vowed to come back as I had fallen in love with the island. There was just so much more to do.
I returned in September and of course, headed straight back to Sa Calobra, this time for an evening ride in an attempt to catch the sunset. I timed it perfectly, although I paid for it a bit as the darkness fell quite quickly as I descended back to the car.
Sa Calobra at sunset. Photo: Christine Grosart
The ascent was super slow as I had made the mistake of thinking I could do it the day after riding up the highest and hardest climb in Mallorca – Puig Major.
Nicknamed ‘The Pig’ this climb went on a bit but wasn’t particularly steep. I rode all of it, no walking, only stopping a few times for a snack and a drink as I’m still a bit wobbly feeding on the bike, especially when pushing up a hill.
Puig Major is a category 1 climb, 13.9km in distance with an average gradient of 6.2%, gaining 830 metres of climbing.
Ascending Puig Major
I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to do this earlier in the year and avoided it for that reason. My cycling fitness had been improving with the help of Jason at PDQ cycle coaching. Although I hadn’t lost much weight, climbs were getting easier.
I was delighted to reach the mountain lake at the top and pass through the tunnel which marks the official end of the climb.
I had a fast and fantastic descent among several other cyclists and treated myself to lunch at the popular Kingfisher restaurant overlooking the marina in Soller.
Completely addicted to triathlons now, I had been talked into an end of season open water tri in Minehead. There was a small issue – I hadn’t really swum any distance in the sea. Whilst I was a strong and fairly quick pool swimmer, I hadn’t done much more than bob about in the ocean. I mean, that’s what it’s for – and diving and snorkelling, of course.
I thought I had better get a move on, so I tentatively stepped off the sandy beach by the hotel, complete with my new swim float, and procrastinated a bit. I picked a mooring buoy not too far away and decided I’d swim to that and back. Baby steps.
As I put my face in the water, I tried to slow my breathing and kept telling myself to stop being so silly. It wasn’t the same as diving, nor snorkelling, which I do without a single thought.
This was different. I felt vulnerable, totally dependent on my own buoyancy and breathing technique and reaching the mooring buoy felt like a huge milestone. I like to know what’s beneath me, and I like to see what is anchoring that buoy to the seabed. Crazy.
As a diver I don’t give a monkeys. But swimming on the surface, I was paranoid about absolutely everything.
I got back to the beach and gave myself a silent pat on the back.
“Now go out and do it again. But further this time.”
As I increased in confidence I concentrated on my stroke, distance, and time rather than being paranoid about what was beneath me and actually began to enjoy it.
I stopped worrying about whether I could see the sea floor or not and put my efforts into ‘sighting’ the buoy ahead and keeping to a straight line.
The beach next to the hotel was Ok but the water was a bit shallow as it passed over reefs. I needed a much longer swim.
I set off on my bike to the long beach in front of Porto Pollensa and out in much deeper water, was the perfect line of mooring buoys to swim along. I began to relax and enjoy it and before I knew it, had swum 1400m, the distance of the Annecy triathlon swim which I was aiming for in 2024. And I’d done it in well inside the cut off time.
Running of course was my nemesis. Running in Mallorca is a horribly sweaty affair, and I didn’t enjoy it at all. More work needed there, unfortunately.
I had another short ride out to Cala Vincenc, but this time stopped to have a swim in the sea on the sandy beach that always looked so stunning as I rode by. I also managed to grab a table for lunch at the bar which was heaving with cyclists.
Returning to the UK was a shame, but I had a very determined goal. It was the Minehead triathlon that very weekend.
Brilliantly organised by Channel Events, the Minehead tri was a bit of a step up from the beginners’ triathlons I’d been entering. There were lots of expensive, specialist tri bikes on the racks and a lot of very fit looking people wearing aero helmets.
It was a sea swim in the Bristol Channel, which was a far cry from the warm swimming pools I’d been used to.
I’d had a quick foray to Yeovil to try on and buy a wetsuit and Channel Events had thankfully laid on a trial swim the day before the race, for people like me. Swimming in the muddy, cold waters of the Bristol Channel was far from appealing to someone like me, who had actively avoided the open water swimming scene.
I arrived early on race day, registered, racked my bike, and was overwhelmed with support and good vibes from the people I’d met at Channel events the day before and Kelli Coxhead who had organised the Cheddar Triathlon.
It was a family atmosphere which was ironic. Nobody in my family was remotely interested in supporting me or coming to cheer me on. Luckily, I was used to it and actually pleased not to have these distractions. I was afforded the headspace to concentrate on my race.
The swim was an aussie style mass start off the beach, and it was super exciting. My swim was good, and I even passed a few people, playing it safe and starting at the back. The first transition up the beach to the bike was hard running uphill on sand and my running fitness, or lack of, was already starting to show.
I had a good bike section, but being hilly and me being heavy, I couldn’t pass anyone. Then the run, which was disastrous. It was entirely my fault as I hadn’t really trained for it. Running hurts my back and sets off back spasm, so I’d just avoided it. The 25% hill in the middle of the run course wasn’t helping either!!
It didn’t matter though. I was hooked.
If I could find a way of sorting my back and improving my running, I’d be heading to Annecy in June 2024.
Interested in giving tri, a try?
Grab yourself this inspirational book ‘Dare to Tri’ by Louise Minchin.
While you’re there, pick up a copy of ‘Fearless’ - you might recognise someone!
